For a moment Peter wavered; then poured an inch more of liquid courage into the empty glass. “That's the last for to-night; we've got to plan for your future.” “My future!” Ocky Waffles twisted his unwaxed mustaches and spread his arms across the table. “My future! Oh, yes. I've got a great future.” Peter tapped him on the hand. “Not a great future; but a future. There are two people who care for you. That's something.” “Two people? There's you, but don't count me in on it. This little boy isn't very fond of himself.” “There's me and there's Glory.” “Glory!” Ocky Waffles smiled grimly. Then he seemed ashamed of himself and repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Glory!” “She cares more than I do,” Peter said. “She and I and you, all working together--do you understand?--she and I and you are going to make you well. We're going to show everybody that you're a strong, good man; and we're going to work in secret until we can prove it.” “A strong, good man!” The subject of this wonderful experiment looked down at himself contemptuously. “A strong, good man, I think you said. Likely, isn't it? I've started by getting drunk.” With sudden loathing and concentrated will power he swept the glass of whisky from him. It fell to the floor with a crash. He had become sober and rose to his feet solemnly. “Not a strong, good man. I could have been once. I'm a jail-bird. I've got my memories. My memories!--Good God, I wouldn't tell you! You're young. I can only try to be decent now, if that's enough. And--and I'd like to try, Peter, if you'll help me.” As they drove back to Topbury the fumes of the drink overcame him. He fell asleep with his head rolling against Peter's shoulder. Even in his sleep he seemed to remember his shame, and how he must keep it hidden from the world. His hand kept traveling to his hat, when a jerk of the cab threatened to remove it. What to do with him! As the night fled by him Peter planned. No one but Peter would have thought out a plan so humanely idiotic. The silver moonlight fell between clumped trees and flooded all the meadows. Houses became more frequent. Above the trotting of the horse the grumble of traffic was heard. They were descending High-gate Hill; Peter put his arm about his companion to prevent his slipping forward. He stirred and muttered, “Poor old Ocky! Too bad! Too bad, going and getting drunk! Just out of prison and all that.”